


Under the Water

by SexuallyAsexual



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amnesia, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Cussing, Eating Disorders, Gen, He's kinda bipolar, Humor, Little bit of angst, Logan is a dick, Lots of scars, Morally Ambiguous Character, Nicknames, OC centric, POV Multiple, Scars, and then he isn't, everyone has a nickname, lots of cussing, taggin as we go, until he is again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1770517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SexuallyAsexual/pseuds/SexuallyAsexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her name is Hawthorne. She's fifteen. She thinks. She can't remember. What she does know is she's a mutant. Logan leaves the mansion for a beer, he comes back with an amnesiac kid. She may or may not be plotting everyone's death. It's great.</p>
<p>"Logan, what's up with you bringing strays home all the time?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freaks and Creeps and All That Jazz

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Pretty Reckless song.

It smells like crap. Crap and carrots and baby vomit—wait. No, that's from _Goldmember._ Ignore that.

It hits like a brick wall. I never got that phrase. Who's stupid enough to run into a wall? And the wall obviously isn't moving. Then again, with the world in total hell as it is, it just might. But that's not the point. I'm going off on a rabbit trail. Don't you hate when that happens?

Onward.

It hits like a brick wall. Bricks made of a smoky haze dotted with the glowing red ends of cigars and cigarettes, cemented down with cheap liquors that burn your throat as it goes down, all on a foundation of melancholia and self-loathing and all that jazz. It's really a great place. I don't see why there aren't more people. Don't college kids like these kinds of places?

Oh, wait, that's right. It's in the middle of fucking nowhere.

I stand by the door for a second. For being in the middle of nowhere, there are quite a few people in here. They all look slow though; beer bellies galore in here. Bartender should have some sort of weapon. Hopefully not a gun. Best to take him out first, then anyone else with small weapons.

It's good to have escape plans.

Before anyone notices me, I make myself relax. Kill my posture, shoulders slouch. I leave my hood up though. Keep my head down. Don't draw attention, that's rule _numero uno_. Someone obviously didn't tell these tards.

The locals stare as I move. Pretty soon, all the talk dies down to whispers. Even the music seems to shut up. Their lips twist in disgust at my outsider stench, because—being the lumberjack hillbillies that they are—I'm sure they can smell it on me. They watch with icy glares. This is their clubhouse. No kids allowed. Especially punks with dirty blue combat boots.

Well then. They're just going to have to learn how to share.

I find an empty stool at the counter, away from everyone else. I can feel them watching as I take off my bag and drop it in my lap. Creeps. If a fight breaks out, I'm gouging out a couple eyes. Keep them as souvenirs.

The bartender finally notices me. He's a big guy, just like the rest of the Neanderthals in here. His eyes are hard, biased, and bloodshot. Drinking on the job? Drinking is his job. His face is a ruddy red. He carries a dirty washrag, wipes his hands in it. That can't be sanitary.

"Ain't you a little young to be here, girly?" he sneers. I look up at him. Gawd, he's ugly. Balding too. Guy should just shave it all off. It'd look better. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully, for the sake of the people that have to look at him. Like me.

"I'm not here to drink," I say flatly. Barkeep glares down at me. I meet his eyes. Dirty blue eyes. My boots look better.

"Then what'd'ya want?" he demands. I open my bag and pull out my wallet. Open that and pull out a ten and two ones.

"All I have is twelve bucks," I lie. I actually have closer to four hundred. Not telling him though. "What food can that buy me?" I ask, pulling my hood off, revealing my blue beanie. The man holds his glare. I clench my jaw. Come on, dude. Take the money.

The man rolls his head to the side. His neck pops. "Can get you a burger and some fries."

"What about a water?"

"It'll be hot."

"Fine."

We keep up our staring contest. The man's lip pulls up in a snarl before he turns and starts for a door behind the counter. The kitchen hopefully. I let out a small sigh of relief and stick my money back in my wallet. Won't be pulling that out until after I get food in my stomach. My stomach twists at the mention of food. Man, when was the last time I ate something hot?

Chsh, can't even remember my whole name, how am I supposed to remember what I ate?

Slowly, the life starts to trickle back into the other patrons. I can still feel them watching me, but not as many eyes this time. It's getting louder though.

Wait. Is it just me, or is there about twice as many people in here now? I glance around. Shit. Definitely more people in here. There's a door in the back. They're coming out of there; drunk and staggering like a poor parody of a zombie attack. I need to reevaluate my escape plan.

They're all drunk. That can come in handy. Drunks are sloppy. But then again, some of these lumberjacks look like pissed as all fucking hell. A couple look like they had their faces smashed in with a waffle iron. Why a waffle iron? Not sure. I guess because I like waffles. Just don't ask how I know I like them. I don't remember.

I catch a couple of their mutterings. Something about losing money. Guy must have cheated. Fight was rigged.

Oh? Oh. _Oh._ Balls.

Fighters. These guys are fighters. Crap. Crap. Crapitty crap crap! They're still drunk. I better get a knife with my burger. Or a fork. Hell, even a spoon will work.

They spread out into the bar. One angry as all hell group goes to an empty table, where they glare at a stocky guy. Hairy guy. Spiky hair, like he has bunny ears. I can't help but smile a bit at that. The guy sits at the counter about three seats away from me. He doesn't seem to notice me. Good. Let's keep it that way.

The bartender comes back. He sets a glass of water in front of me. "Food'll be a little longer."

I just nod, not taking my eyes off the water. The cup is clear, or at least I think it used to be clear. It's all muggy now, and it has a chip in the rim. I pick it up and look in it at the water. It's foggy. I crinkle my nose at it and push it away. Gross ass Neanderthals.

I glance around again. People keep shuffling out of the back room, filling the room. Guy sitting kinda by me has a beer now. Has his eyes glued on his bottle like it would disappear if he looked away. I crinkle my nose at him, trying to figure out his story. He stinks of melancholy. It's the dangerous kind, the kind the victim doesn't know about until after he finds himself falling toward the water's hard surface after throwing himself off of a bridge. Yeah.

I look back down at my gross cup. Maybe he's a secret agent. The guy drinking by himself. Maybe he's some sort of James Bond 007 shit, staking out these creeps for some sort of super villain. He just doesn't belong. He has a sort of air about him. The guy takes a swig of his beer, freezing for a split second, the bottle tipped up, his lips around the top, his Adams apple stuck in the middle of his neck mid drink. His eyes slowly make their way to mine. We stare at each other as he sets down his drink.

He has old eyes. Eyes that have seen shit that no one should see. Eyes that have seen friends and family die, eyes that have burned with rage and hatred, eyes that have seen the very heart of hell and clawed their way out again.

Well, maybe not that last one, but you get the point.

I don't drop my gaze. This is one staring contest I intend on winning. I can tell he's doing the same thing I did. He's trying to figure out my story. They aren't threatening, just alert.

The barkeep comes back to where I sit. He drops something in front of me. A fork and knife wrapped in a napkin. I arch an eyebrow at him.

"Usually this comes with food," I deadpan. He narrows his eyes at me.

"It's coming." He looks over my head. Something flashes in his eyes and I swear the dude smirks. He steps back and goes back to the other patrons. Somewhere behind me, a chair makes a gross screeching sound as it scrapes against the blood and alcohol stained floor.

The air feels heavy. Feels muggy and sticks to my skin, sticks to my lungs when I breathe in.

Oh, balls. There's someone behind me, isn't there?

"That's my seat." I slowly turn around, one hand gripping my bag, the other sliding its way to the fork and knife. Big guy stands there, smashed up face. Must have been in the fights. Must have lost. I take a breath and immediately regret it. Guy smells like B.O. and stale alcohol. Makes my nose sting.

"Do you realize how elementary you sound right now?" I ask flatly. The guy clenches his bruised jaw.

"Little girl, you aren't from around here, are you?"

"Why no, no I am not," I say brightly before deadpanning, "whatever gave it away?" I stare the guy in the eye. "Now shove off. I'm a paying customer."

Something flashes in secret agent's eyes and I realize I said the wrong thing. "Paying customer?" Bruised Jaw barks in laughter. I narrow my eyes at him as he moves in closer. "I don't see your drink, princess. What're you paying for?"

"Sir, I recommend you step back." I keep my voice calm and even. Deadly. I wish I could remember whom I learned it from. Then I could thank him. The man looks about ready to crap himself. Then he grows a pair, remembering that he's supposed to be scaring a fifteen-year-old kid. He looks ready to reach out when a hand falls on his shoulder.

"Leave the kid alone," a gruff voice growls. I look past the tard to see the secret agent. His eyes are hard. He means business.

"Mind your own business," Bruised Jaw snarls, pushing the secret agent away. He reaches out, catches a fistful of my jacket, and pulls me out of the seat. My bag falls to the floor with a clatter.

I should probably think before I act. But the time you spend thinking is just enough time to get you killed.

Therefore, I do not think. I act. And because I act, I'm still alive.

I drive the fork into the man's shoulder. It's thick, full of muscle. He still cusses when I twist it though. The hold on my jacket is gone. I drop a bit, kicking out. My foot connects to the side of the man's knee and the room is filled with a sickening crack followed by a scream. I jump up as the man fall, catching his head and slamming it into my knee. He falls into an unmoving heap. He isn't dead though. Least I don't think he's dead. Didn't slam his face with enough force.

The secret agent seems to be fighting his own battle. Must have been Bruised Jaw's buddies. Or maybe just some people looking for an excuse to do some damage. Who knows?

A hand closes around my arm and I'm whirled around. I find myself face to face with what has to be the ugliest person I have ever seen. He sneers, and a sickening mixture of tobacco and alcohol rolls off of him like a midnight fog.

I left the fork in Bruised Jaw's shoulder, and the knife is still on the counter. Behind me. Crap.

I do not think. I act. Because I act, I might just get myself killed.

I swing at the man. As I do so, I feel the air hardening in my hand. I grip the new club tighter and feel my hand shake when it connects to the man's head. As I did so, I felt another hand on my shoulder. I whirl around, and the blunt edge of the club sharpens. I point it under the man's chin, the man that thought it would be a good idea to touch me.

He freezes and the bar goes silent. Every one stares at the translucent green bladed club in my hand, something I didn't have ten seconds ago. The man in front of me has a knife in his hands. Really? I look around. Everyone is still. Silent. Eyes wide in fear. I meet the eyes of the secret agent. He has three knives to another guy's throat. Wait a second…

Ho. Ly. Shit. Those knives are coming out of his knuckles.

The secret agent looks past me, and his eyes flash with rage. Before I can turn around to see why, I feel something pressed into the small of my back. Something small. Despite my jacket, I can feel that it's cold. I tense.

_Chk-Chk_

Damn.

I close my eyes, inwardly scolding myself for not remembering the bartender. I was supposed to take him out first. I slowly turn around and see him glaring at me with hate filled eyes down the barrel of a shotgun.

"Drop it, girly," he growls, gesturing to my club. I pull it away from the man's throat and bring it to the bartender's view. Once he can see it, I let it go. It falls about a foot before it dissolves, little green specs floating and disappearing into the air. Once it's gone, I take a step back. Claws steps up, puts himself in front of me. The gun swings around to him.

"Now. I don't want any freaks in my bar," the bartender growls. I clench my jaw.

"Guess that means I don't get my burger?"

The bartender's face twists in disgust and he points the gun past Claws's head at me. Crap.

He does not think. He acts. Because he acts, I'm still alive.

There's a shiny flash and the gun falls into three pieces. Claws stands a lot closer to the barkeep. His shoulders are tense. He looks like he wants to stick his claws in the guy's gut. I wouldn't have stopped him.

"You better think twice before you go pointin' that thing at a kid," he growls, low and mean, like a pissed off dog. Every one is silent, paralyzed with fear. Nobody makes a move as he stoops down and grabs my bag off the floor. Pushes it into my gut as he stalks by.

"Come on, kid."

I do not think. I act. Because I act, I am alive.

I follow him out the door and into the cold night.


	2. The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship

Logan glances over at the kid. She's been quiet ever since they left that damn bar, and that was almost an hour ago. She didn't ask where they were going, didn't ask for his name, didn't even offer her own. He would have blamed it on fear, but she was calm the whole time too. Even back at the bar, when the gun was on her. She cracked a joke. No fear scent.

Kid was used to this kind stuff. 

The girl looks out the window, her dark eyes on the moon. Wild eyes. He's seen eyes like hers before. Have your back if they like you, but if they don't? Lord have mercy on your soul.

The silence feels awkward. Logan keeps his eyes on the road. All he wanted was a night away from the brats at the school, throw a couple punches and get some spending cash, but no. What's up with him finding kids at crap bars? At least now he knows where to take this one. Hopefully Chuck won't mind.

The girl takes a breath. Logan glanced down at her as she speaks.

"Um, thanks, I guess," she says in a rather monotone voice. Didn't sound very thankful.

"Welcome." It comes out harsher than he means it to. The girl nods and looks down at the bag in her hands.

"So, you're a mutant too?" she asks as if asking what he had for lunch. He nods once. He can feel her sharp eyes on him, burning into him. Studying him. He clears his throat.

"What'd'ya call yourself, kid?" he asks gruffly. The girl looks down, her dark hair falling over her face, hiding her expression.

"Hawthorne," she says quietly.

"Hawthorne?" Logan tries it out. It tastes funny. "That your last name?"

The girl, Hawthorne, clenches her hands into fists. "Dunno."

"'Dunno'?" Logan looks down at the girl. She keeps her face hidden. "Well, how old are ya?"

"Fifteen." She pauses. "I think."

Oh, damn. Damn it to hell. Kid's a fucking amnesiac. How is she not freaking out? Why does he always get stuck with these problems? Chuck better be able to fix this.

The girl speaks again. "Um, if you don't mind me asking," she starts, sounding like she'd go on with the question even if he did mind, "where are we going?"

Ah, there it is. Logan was starting to worry. What kind of kid just gets into a truck with a complete stranger without knowing where he's going? Well, there was Rogue, but…

"A school, uh, Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters." He glances down to see the girl's arched eyebrow, her eyes sharp. "It's a place for people like us. Mutants. A sanctuary. They'll help you out," he says.

"How far is it?"

"'Bout another two hours," Logan answers. The girl is quiet for a second.

"Help me?"

Her voice sounded strange. The feral looks down at her. She's looking at him funny. He nods once. "Yeah. There's a telepath there. If anyone can find your memories, it's him."

If she doesn't have a malfunctioning brain like his own. Hawthorne stays quiet. She has a concentrated look on her face, as if she's thinking about what he had just said. Before she can say anything about it, a soft grumbling noise fill the cab of the truck. Hawthorne's eyes go wide in shock before her face turns a rather bright shade of red, considering how pale she's looking. Logan will have to make sure Jean and Hank get a look at her. The girl's hands cover her stomach and she looks down in embarrassment.

Logan can't help it. He smirks. Hawthorne doesn't see it. She's too busy staring down at her lap. Logan sighs. Keeping his eyes on the road, he lifts up the center armrest and pulls out a granola bar. Rogue had made him take a couple for the drive. He didn't even like granola bars, but the kid had pulled some puppy dog eyes and he couldn't say no.

Those damn brats are making him soft.

Logan can feel Hawthorne tense next to him. He glances down at her as he holds out the bar to her. She looks up at him confused. "Here, kid." He waves it at her. She hesitates, but after a second takes it.

"Thanks," she mumbles, taking her time to open it. He half expects her to scarf the thing down, but instead she just breaks off a small piece, studies it for a second, smells it. He doesn't know if she's checking to see if he laced it with something—smart kid if that's what's up—or if she's just never seen one before. Once she's happy with what she sees, the kid nibbles at a corner, then pops the piece in her mouth.

"So, what were you doin' in that damn place anyway?" Logan asks. The girl shrugs.

"Wanted food." She rips another piece of the bar apart and eats it. She looks up at Logan as she chews. "What's your name?" she asks bluntly.

"Logan."

"Logan." Hawthorne tries it out. Then smirks. "That your last name?" The feral looks down at the girl.

"Smart ass," he mutters, shaking his head. The kid yawns once, wrapping up what's left of the bar and setting it on her lap.

"So in about two hours, we're getting to that school place?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"Cool." The girl glances up at him, and something flashes in those wild eyes of hers. "You know, if you lied, I will kill you," she says simply. Logan isn't surprised by those words, and he has a feeling that—even with his healing factor—the kid probably put a good hurting on him. He looks over at her, sees her looking out the window, and shakes his head.

Oh, yeah. He could tell this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

* * *

Charles Xavier closes his eyes for a second, and a faint smile crosses his features. There's a knock at his door. "Come in."

He opens his eyes as the door opens, revealing three adults. Two women, one with long, fiery red hair, and the other with shockingly white hair, cut short. The other is a man wearing red sunglasses despite being inside.

"You wanted to see us, Professor?" Jean Grey asks. Xavier smiles up at them.

"Yes, Jean, come in," he says, and the trio walks in. "It would seem that we will be having a new addition to our school," he says knowingly. The X-Men exchange looks.

"Should we use the Blackbird?" Scott Summers asks; his voice almost excited. Jean looks over at him, a faint smile on her lips. That man loves that thing too much. Xavier chuckles.

"No, Scott, there is no need." Scott looks a bit put out with that.

"Are the parents bringing the child?" Ororo Munroe asks; her voice lightly accented. Xavier shakes his head.

"No. Logan's bringing her home." His eyes light up. "Ah. That would be them."

* * *

I don't know what I was expecting.

I follow Claws down a hall, and every now and then I can feel his eyes on me. Checking my reaction. I try to keep my face blank, but it must not work. The guy keeps smirking at me. Jerk.

"So, uh, how do you know these people?" I ask, glancing into a room we pass. Expensive.

"I teach here." I stop short to stare at the man in front of me. There is no way this brute teaches here. James Bond doesn't _teach_. He must notice that I've stopped, but doesn't stop. "Don't fall behind, kid."

I crinkle my nose, but hurry after him, my boots' stomping echoing throughout the hall. "You _teach_? What do you teach?" I demand, only to smirk. "Wait, let me guess. English."

Claws shoots me a Shut-Up look. "Smart ass," he mutters, shaking his head. "And no, not English," he snaps gruffly. "Defense."

"Defense? What do you do? Run at the poor kids with those knives of yours?" I crack a grin at the glare he shoots me. "Sorry, Claws," I say, not sorry at all, "but you don't exactly look teacher material."

Claws takes a breath, no doubt trying to stay calm. "Damn brat," he grumbles. "Shoulda made ya walk."

"But you didn't. See, you're a decent human, after all," I say in mock brightness. Then frown at how we turn to a plain hall, no more expensive shit on the walls. "Where're we going now?" I demand.

"Infirmary," Claws says simply. "You look like shit, kid."

I stop short. "Infirm… like, with a doctor?" I look down the hall, narrow my eyes at it. Maybe I can make a run for it, knock him out with a club or something. He must sense my discomfort, because he stops and looks back at me.

"What?" he demands.

"I don't like doctors," is my automatic response.

"Why not?"

"Can't remember," I admit bluntly. "And you tard, I do not look like shit," I snap, knowing the words are a lie. At least, I feel like shit. Head's pounding. I wonder if this is how Zeus felt when Athena was born. I feel for the guy. Even though he's a myth and doesn't actually exist.

Claws smirks. "Tell that to a mirror." His eyes harden a bit, probably sees how I tense. "And don't even think about runnin'."

"Quick, what color am I thinking of?" I deadpan. "Is it really necessary? I mean, I feel fine…" I trail off at the look he gives me. "No?" The mutant in front of me sighs.

"Relax, Boots, the docs here ain't gonna kill you," he assures as I start to follow him again. I give him an annoyed look.

"Was that a _Dora_ reference?" I demand. "Because I am not a monkey."

He looks down at me like I'm crazy. "The hell is a _Dora_?"

"You know, little Mexican girl with a talking monkey best friend and the purple back pa…" I trail off. He stares at me, no doubt wondering how he got stuck with me. "No?"

"How do you even—?"

"Shut up. They had it playing in a Wal-Mart I spent a couple of nights at." I pause, ignoring the sympathetic look. "Had some catchy tunes, though," I say with a small smile, the Map song playing through my head. "And I have a name. Kinda. Hawthorne."

"I have a name too. Logan."

"But I like Claws better," I tell him.

"And I like Boots." I glare at him as we stop in front of a white door. He knocks once before pushing it open, grabbing a fistful of my jacket's hood when I make a last minute attempt of freedom. "Don't even think about it," he growls, pulling me in after him.

"But do I have to?" I look up at him, pull some puppy dog eyes I have no idea where I learned. "Can't we just, I dunno, not, and say we did?" He rolls his eyes and plants me next to him, not letting go of my jacket as we face four new people. I stare at them for a second. "Oh. Hello." I clear my throat as I yank my hood out of Claws's hand, glaring at him as I do so. I glance around, barely suppressing a shudder. "This your science room? It's very… science-y."

And it is. Looks like a lab. I don't like labs. I wish I could remember why though. I look at the four new people. Two women, a white ginger chick and a black chick with white hair. Ha. I'm gonna call her Oreo. Is that racist? I hope it's not racist. Two men, one a tall dude, dark hair. Why the hell is he wearing sunglasses? Inside. At night. Like that one song. The last is some bald dude in a wheelchair.

Best bet would be to take out Shades first. Oreo looks tougher, so she's next, then the ginger. But then we still have Claws—

"I assure you, there is no need for violence," Baldy says in a soothing voice. Eat your heart out, Morgan Freeman. Wait. Crap.

"What color am I thinking of?" I ask.

"You're not thinking of a color. You're thinking of Batman," the man says, a warm smile playing at him lips. I look up at Claws.

"He's good." Claws just smirks.

"Hawthorne, I presume," he guesses. I nod once.

"Yeah, that's me." Claws nudges my arm, shooting me a glare at the tone I use. Baldy doesn't seem to mind though. He just keeps on smiling.

"I am Professor Charles Xavier," he says. "These are the other teachers here. Dr. Jean Grey," the ginger steps up. "Ororo Munroe," ha! He name even sounds like Oreo! "And Scott Summers." I look at them; study them. Jean smiles warmly at me. What's up with that?

I don't try to figure out what though. Ice pick totally took out about half of my brain. Not really, but it sure feels like it. I bring a hand up and rub my temple, crinkling my nose. Head ache needs to piss off.

"You alright, Boots?" There's a frown in his voice.

"Peachy, Claws," I mutter. "Just peachy." I open my eyes to see the concerned look coming from the four newbies. Oh. Hey. Dizzy. Dizzy needs to not be here.

"Logan," Ginger starts, her voice somewhat alarmed. She takes a step forward. I blink once before my legs turn into Jell-o. I hate Jell-o. It's a texture thing. Last thing I see is Claws jumping forward to catch me as I start to face-plant.

So much for first impressions.


	3. Friends Don't Make Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See that tag with the scars? This is where they come in. Not sure if that's something I should warn people about, but just to be on the safe side, there's a shit ton of scars here.

Jean Grey looks down at the unconscious girl on the bed, makes sure the IV is in properly, the heart monitor works accordingly. The girl had already been like this for almost four hours. The doctor takes a shaky breath, trying to keep herself composed, but her vision still blurs with tears.

Hawthorne, that's what she called herself, what Logan said she called herself. Dark circles hang under her eyes like bruises, as if she hadn't had a proper sleep in weeks. The girl is suffering from severe exhaustion and malnutrition. Her face is hollow, and a small scar, a thin line, runs across her left cheek. When Jean had changed the girl out of her old clothes and into a PJ pant and black shirt, she could see how her collar bones stuck out. Jean had seen her fair share of kids coming from abusive families because of their mutations, but this… This is monstrous.

Scars litter Hawthorne's torso. Some are precise, small and controlled. Some are from burns. There are about four bullet marks, one of them just to the right of her heart. Of those four, only two made it out the other side. There are at least two over each of her sides that match the marks of a bone breaking through the skin. The scars vary in age, the oldest being years old, the most recent just a few months. The one that stands out the most is a long, jagged line that goes down her side. As if someone had stuck a serrated knife in her side and just pulled down, twisting once it reached just above her hip. It's still a little pink.

One arm has four white lines right above her elbow, as if an animal had taken a swipe at her, and the skin on both wrists are darker, as if she had been tied, or handcuffed, and tried to get away. Her left thumb is just slightly crooked, barely noticeable, suggesting a break or dislocation, and that she had succeeded in that escape. The skin of her knuckles is rougher, calloused almost, like she had been in too many fights.

Jean steps away, quickly wiping away a runaway tear after seeing the white line that went from the girl's elbow down to her wrist. Logan had said that this girl doesn't remember a lot, and she prays, oh how she prays, that however she got these scars is gone too.

But the scars aren't all that mark the girl's body. On the back of her neck is a tattoo in bold, black ink.

**IV**

There's a knock on the door. Jean looks up as Ororo and Logan walk in. Both wear concerned expressions; the Canadian's less visible. It's there though, in his eyes. He speaks first.

"How's the kid?" he asks gruffly, glancing down at her. Something flashes in his eyes, and Jean knows he's seen the little scars on her arms. The telepath takes a breath before answering.

"Exhaustion and malnutrition. She should be fine though, she's just sleeping now." Ororo narrows her eyes, catching on that something was left out.

"Jean?" she presses softly. "What else is wrong?" Jean shakes her head, her eyes threatening to spill tears. Logan frowns at that, and Ororo just steps up and puts a hand on her friend's arm. "Show me then," she says. Jean nods once. Almost immediately, the one called Storm gasps, and draws back from the telepath.

"What?" Logan demands. Jean sighs, and repeats the action. Logan is silent for a second. Then his eyes go dark, he jaw clenches, and he looks like he wants to kill someone. "Who would do that to a kid?" he growls, low and mean. Jean just shakes her head.

"I don't know."

* * *

"Was all that really necessary?"

Ginger offers a small smile as she sets down her stethoscope on a small table next to the bed I'm stuck sitting one. "Very necessary," she says. "I need to know if there's anything wrong with you."

I scoff. "Lady, there's plenty wrong with me."

She freezes a bit at that, only to brush it off with another smile. I wasn't supposed to catch it, but I did. I decide to ignore it and glance around the room. My hair is still damp from the shower I demanded to have before subjecting to that stupid check up. I'm not going to lie; it was probably the most beautiful shower I have ever taken. Getting that gross smoky bar feel off is the best feeling in the world.

"Soo," I start nonchalantly. "You a Creep too?" Ginger looks up at me in a sort of shock. "Um, mutant," I add. Creeps. Who had called mutants Creeps? Must have been someone I was around a lot, if I picked it up like that.

"Oh. Yes, I'm a mutant too," she says, her eyes on my, checking for a reaction. I just nod.

"That's cool." Man, this room is bugging me out. "What's your super power?"

She smiles and looks across the room and I follow her gaze to a small table. I frown and start to say something clever—because I'm a clever girl—when the damn thing starts hovering. Like, holy hell, there's a poltergeist, someone get the fucking salt and call the Winchesters.

"Ah. Right then. That's…" I gasp. "Can you make yourself fly?"

Ginger laughs at that and sets down the table. "If you call it flying."

"That's cool." I grin. "Cooler than Claws. And his poison is cool." I pause. "So, am I done with this nonchalansense?" I demand, kicking out my feet, barely missing Ginger. She shoots me a look and I decide it's best for my health that I stop. Before she can answer me, a new voice cuts in.

"Actually, I was hoping to ask you some question, Hawthorne." Glancing over at the door, I see the bald dude rolling in. Something X. I give a small smirk.

"Sure, you can ask, but there's no promises I'll have all the answers." I tap my temple with an index finger. "Dunno if Claws told you, but this thing is kinda broken."

X just offers a warm smile as the chair moves forward. "Yes, Logan has told me of your predicament, but I think I may be able to help you, even if it is just a little."

I kinda just stare at him for a second. What's with these dudes and help help help? It's unnatural. Unnerving. But in the end I just shrug. "You can try, man."

X nods once. "Very well then. Hawthorne, Jean has told me about your…" he hesitates. "Scars. Do you remember how you got them?"

"Scars? Oh, right, those," I laugh at myself. "I have no idea. Woke up a while back and this one," I lift up my shirt a bit and point to the newest one on my side, "was still hurting like a bi—"

"Language, Boots!" I look up and see Claws stalk in, his eyes stern until they fall on my side. "Damn." He says it softly. Ginger looks away. I pull down my shirt and shrug.

"Haven't been into many fights since I woke, and the ones that I am in, the other tards barely even touch me," I tell them. "Who knows where these come from." I grin. "Maybe I'm a ninja."

X gives an amused smile at that. "And when was it that you woke?"

"Eh. 'Bout two months ago?" I crinkle my nose. "Woke outside some small Kansas town. All I had was my bag, a change of clothes, and a hell of a lotta money. No clue where it came from. Not that I'm complaining about having it." I frown. "Dude, where's my bag?" I demand, glaring at Claws. He just nods across the room. Oh. There it is. On the floor. By my boots. Cool. I nod once and go on. "Anywho, been hitching rides and walking around ever since."

"You didn't try to find out who you were?" Jean asks. I shake my head.

"Something told me that would've been a bad idea," I say quietly. Then louder, "'Sides, not like anyone would have been able to do anything." Ginger opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off. "Say I go to some cops. Then what? They put me in some sort of home; make me a ward of the state. And what about when people find out about my power? You know how screwed I'd be? The place I first woke at made it very clear they don't like Creeps."

Ginger doesn't say anything at that and Claws looks mildly annoyed. X just nods. "I see." Then his eyes light up like he's about to change the subject to something lighter. "Hawthorne, I don't think I've had a chance to see your power. Logan told me, but if you don't mind, I'd love to see it in person."

I grin. "All you had to do was ask," I tell him, bringing up a hand a bit, palm up. It doesn't take much concentration before the particles in the air harden, and a small translucent green marble forms in my hand. It grows in size, and pretty soon it's almost too big for my hand. "I can make pretty much anything I want," I say simply, looking down at my creation before bringing up my other hand and trapping the ball between hands. When I show it off again, it's a small statue of a turtle. I smile at it for a second before brushing my hands. The turtle is reduced to small glittery specs as they dissolve. "Specialty's weapons though," I say simply.

A bat forms in my hand. I look at it for a second before it transforms. Thinner, just slightly curved. Bladed. I look up at them as I let it flow apart.

"Come on zombie apocalypse," I deadpan.

"Fascinating," X says quietly, his eyes bright. I shrug.

"It's alright. Keeps me alive," I mutter. I look at him. "So, you gonna look in this messed up head and try to figure out why I'm all janked?" I pause. "Or did you already try?"

X shook his head. "I wouldn't do so without your permission, Hawthorne."

"Oh. Right then." I crinkle my nose. "Um, go ahead then, if you wanna try."

X smiles, then brings his hand up to his temple. After a second, my head gets fuzzy. I blink, trying to shake off the feeling when a soft sort of calm comes over me. I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

A pain, sharp and hot. "Shit!" I snap, my hand going to my head. The pain almost immediately disappears, but still. That fucking hurt!

X opens his eyes, dropping his hand. "My apologies, Hawthorne," he says after taking a shaky breath. Ginger goes up to him.

"Professor?"

"Not to worry, Jean," he says reassuringly. His voice still sounds strained a bit. I frown, Claws doing the same. He must have heard it too. "It seems to me that there's a block on your mind, Hawthorne," he explains.

"Block? What kinda block?" I demand. "Like, I put it up?"

"No, not you," he says. "Someone else." He looks up at me. "It will take some time to break down. Perhaps you should get some food and we will try again at a later time."

He's hiding something. I can see it in his eyes. Can see how he thinks it's for my best interest. He offers a small smile.

"Fine," I mutter, jumping off the bed.

"Logan, would you take her please?" The unspoken I'll-Fill-You-In-Later hangs in his words. Claws nods once.

"Sure, Chuck." He looks down at me. "Come on, Boots. Time you meet the rest of the brats here."

I smirk as I follow him out the door. "I'm sure I'll fit right in."

* * *

Professor Xavier takes another breath and rubs his face with his hand. Jean looks down at him, her eyes filled with worry.

"What is it, Professor?" she asks. "What's wrong?"

"It's the block, Jean," he tells her. "It worries me. Someone put it there on purpose." Jean frowns.

"Why would anyone do that?" she demands, anger lacing her voice. Not anger towards the Professor, but the thought that someone would do that. "Who would do that?" Xavier could only shake his head.

"Whoever it was, he made it very clear that he didn't want Hawthorne to remember her past. This wall on her mind is very strong, and dangerous." He looks up at Jean. "If we try to tear it down with force, or all at once, it could kill her, destroy her mind. Whoever did it knew what he was doing."

Jean frowns. "Then what can we do? How can we help her?"

"Our best bet is to take it slow," Xavier advises. "Once we have her in classes, we can set up sessions with her and try to work around the wall. Hypnotism, maybe." He shakes his head and looks at the girl's bag and boots. His mind wanders to the scar she had shown off.

"Do you think that'll work?"

"I'm not sure," Xavier answers honestly. "The real question is, Jean, whether we'd be doing her a favor or more damage by giving back her memories."


	4. Dinner Time at Mutant High

"You're in luck, Boots," Claws says with a smirk. "Dinner just started."

I frown as I follow him. "How long was I gone?" He shrugs.

"Not sure. More 'an twelve hours, at least." I crinkle my nose at that. Shit. Twelve hours out? Imagine if I had been out that long on the road. I'd be so royally fucked they'd crown me as a queen.

"Someone should have woken me," I mutter. "Can't get outta practice just because I found a place to crash for a while."

Claws doesn't say anything to that. We walk down a hall and a low roar of laughter and chitchat gets louder. I narrow my eyes at the door we stop in front of.

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death," I mutter as Claws opens the door and makes a sweeping motion with his hand, gesturing for me to enter.

"They're jus' kids," he says. "Jus' like you, nothin' to worry about."

I scoff. "Lord have mercy on this earth if that's the case." I look up at him. "I'm not exactly a shining example of goodness, you know." He just does that grunt thing of his and walks in, not even looking back to see if I'm following. Jerk.

A cafeteria. Full of kids and awesome smelling food. Oreo and Shades are eating at a table in the front of the room, where they can keep an eye on everyone. Maybe not a cafeteria. It's too nice for that. A freaking huge dining room. That works.

"What am I doing?" I ask quietly, trying to keep the strain out of my voice. Too many people. No possible way I can get out if anything happens. All these people have powers. Maybe if they were normal, but they aren't. I clench my hands into fists and take a breath.

"Logan!"

It takes every once of will power to not throw a wall or bat or something that would hurt at the girl rushing up to Claws, and in turn, to me. She's smiling, like she's actually happy to see the feral. Who would like him? But that isn't the real shocker; no, the real shocker is how he's smiling back. I think that's a smile. Who knows. I step back to watch.

It looks like she wants to hug him, but instead just stops right in front of him. He looks like he wants to hug her, even reaches out to put his hand on her head, but pulls back last minute. She doesn't look too torn about it. She can't be much older than me. And what's with those janky white strips in her hair?

"Hey, kid," Claws says, something weird in his voice. Affection? That must be nice.

"I thought you weren't coming back until tomorrow." OHMYGAWD. Her voice! She's a Dixie Chick! I hold back a snicker and look around the room. People are staring now. Great. Like to see them stare with bloody gaping holes where their eyes should be. I turn my attention back to Claws and the girl. For being a teenaged girl, she isn't showing much skin. Well, neither do I, but then again, scars tend to make people uneasy.

Actually, this dame is barely showing anything. Like, at all. Pants. Long sleeve shirt. Gloves. I'm surprised she isn't wearing one of those veil thingies that chicks from the Middle East have to wear. It's like she can't touch anyone.

Oh. _Oh._ OH.

So that's her poison. Her touch. Huh. Well then. Looks like she isn't getting laid anytime soon. And judging by how Claws looks at her, that strange, fatherly affection in his eyes, that just might be what saves her boyfriend's life. If she has one. I bet she does, just so some Higher Being can laugh at her.

"Yeah, well, things came up," Claws says, bringing me out of my thoughts. I glare at him as he looks at me pointedly. His eyes suddenly narrow, and I realize that he must notice my not so nice thoughts about how I'd like to "play" with the rest of the kids here.

"Did you just call me a thing?" I demand. The girl looks at me, seeing me for the first time. Claws mutters something I don't quite catch, but I heard something that sounded an awful lot like brat. Also evil and demented. Dick. I look at the girl for a second. Isn't that much of a threat. I step up. "Name's Hawthorne," I say bluntly. The girl just smiles brightly.

"I'm Rogue."

That's not her real name. Before I can ask what her real name is, Claws decides to interrupt.

"Make sure this kid gets somethin' to eat, will ya, Rogue?" he asks. "I need to talk to Chuck." Rogue nods and motions for me to follow her. Claws catches my arm before I can get too far.

"These are kids. You are not allowed to kill them, got it?" he growls into my ear, like I'm an actual threat. I guess I am. I could slice his throat open right now, or his belly. Watch as all the pretty blood paints the floor. I pull away.

"You make it sound like I actually need permission."

I ignore his rather outraged expression as I follow the girl called Rogue to a table full of kids. I wonder if he's regretting bringing me here.

* * *

Logan stalks down the hall to the infirmary, his mind reeling. That girl is dangerous. He knew that when he saw her stab that man with the fork last night. He knew when she broke the leg of the other man, when she slammed his face into her knee. He knew when she had used her power and almost stuck her blade in the last man's throat. He saw that light in her eyes; that mean light, that hungry light.

But that had been self-defense. He didn't think much of it then. She was doing what she needed to survive. Who was he to judge? Hell, he was sure he had done much worse than the kid.

But then the light came back. Her eyes lit up when they had walked into the cafeteria. She had stared at the kids, cold and calculating, like a soldier about to go into battle. He could all but hear the gears turning in her head. Who to take out first, how to manage her power to take all the mutants out if need be.

Yeah, this girl is dangerous. Logan wants to blame it on her need to survive, on old habits or instincts stuck in her locked away past. She can't be that bad of a kid.

But then he remembers something else he saw in those wild eyes when he saw her fight. When he saw her draw blood and break bones.

Glee.

Logan shakes his head. If there's anyone that can help the kid and her psycho habits, it's Charles Xavier.

Here's to hoping she can be saved.

* * *

"So," I start nonchalantly, trying to keep from drooling at the sight of the food in the plate in front of me, "what's the deal with this school? They go around picking up Creeps and giving them a place to hang?"

Rogue exchanges a look with a boy, a kid called Bobby. They sit so close that they almost touch, and every now and then, Bobby'll catch a strand of her white hair and give it a playful tug. They're totally dating. Just not sleeping together. Well, at least we know he isn't in it just so he can get into her pants.

"The Professor set up the school to help mutants like us understand our powers," Bobby answers.

I nod and pick a pepperoni off of the pizza in front of me, giving it a quick sniff before dropping it in my mouth. Thing wasn't messed with. "Uh huh." I look around, notice another kid walking up, and decide to ignore him for now. I look at Rogue. She doesn't seem to like it. Too bad.

"What happens when you touch people?" I ask bluntly. The couple share shocked looks. I roll my eyes. "Please, I'm an amnesiac, not an idiot. You're a teenaged girl, and kinda hot one at that. If I was gay, I'd totally be crushing on you," I say noncommittally. Rogue turns a bright shade of red. "Why aren't you, like, slutting it up?"

Rogue looks down, embarrassed. Ashamed? Whoops.

"When I touch people, I, uh, I absorb their powers and memories," she says softly. I arch an eyebrow.

"That's probably the coolest poison I have ever heard of," I say, trying and failing to hide my impression. She gives a small smile that falters.

"It's not that great," she says. "If I touch them for too long, it can kill them."

Ah, there it is. Bobby looks at his girl longingly. I shrug. "Don't be so sad about it," I say simply. She looks up at me in shock. "The way I see it, you have the best anti-rape weapon ever. Some dude tries to feel you up and it's, like, 'Bitch, I will go high-five Claws and come back and castrate you.'"

They burst out laughing at that. Oh, look; I'm making friends

"As for your lover here," I say, "just think of it as birth control." They go red at that. "You and Claws are close, I saw that," I tell her. "If you went and got your eggo preggo, you realize he'll probably make sure this kid can never have children ever again?" I shrug. "Don't be such a Debbie Downer, dame. Look at the bright side of things, as annoying as that is." I pick off another pepperoni. "I should be one of those pep speakers of whatever they're called." The two exchange looks. "No?"

Bobby laughs. "Probably not the best career choice for you."

I pout a bit at that. There's movement at the edge of my vision, and I have to take a breath and clench my hands into fist to keep from lashing out. Claws would be proud.

"Who's the new kid?" I glance up to see a boy grab the empty chair next to mine, turn it around, and sit in it backwards. Aren't you cool.

"Called Hawthorne," I say simply, studying the boy. He had a smug grin planted on his lips, and a wild light in his eyes. Huh. He'll be fun to mess with. "What're you?"

"I'm a what, am I?" he scoffs. I give him a flat look.

"We're all 'what's," I tell him bluntly. "Some of us are just a little more 'what' than others."

The boy looks at me, his expression just a little confused. I arch an eyebrow at him, and for a split second, I see what I'm going for. Fear. I lean back in my chair with a smile.

"I think you just made him speechless," Bobby exclaims, laughing.

"Shut up, Iceman," the new boy snaps. Rogue rolls her eyes.

"Don't mind John."

"Pyro!"

I crinkle my nose. "A bon fire?" I glance over at Bobby. "And an ice machine? What a weird friendship," I muse. "Creeps are weird." I look down at my pizza. It doesn't look as appetizing anymore. I crinkle my nose and push it to John-Pyro. "Here; I don't want it."

"Jean isn't going to be too happy about that," Rogue comments. I crinkle my nose.

"I've gone longer without. Ginger can deal." I let out a yawn. "Where's Claws? Or an adult of some form or fashion?"

The trio of kids exchanged looks. "Storm and Scott are up there," Rogue says nodding to Oreo and Shades. I nod once and stand. They look like they're done eating. I glance down at the pizza John-Pyro is now munching on.

"See ya Creeps 'round," I say before adding the nonchalant, "maybe."

Kids watch as I make my way to the teachers' table. Seriously, it's like they try to make the new kids feel awkward and violent. I decide to play nice and ignore them. When I get to where I know Oreo and Shades can hear me, I speak out.

"Hey, Teach, gotta question."

They both look up at me, both somewhat surprised. Whoop-di-doo. Oreo speaks.

"Yes?"

I grab a chair and set it on the opposite side of the table before plopping down. "Right, I'm done eating, what do I do now?"

"You hardly ate anything," Shades exclaims. I crinkle my nose at him.

"It's rude to stare at people when they eat," I snap. He doesn't look happy with my tone. "Also, how the heck can you even see with those shades on?" I demand. Before he can go throw a tantrum, Oreo speaks up.

"Hawthorne, you really should eat more. Even if it is a little."

"Chsh, I'm fine." She arches an eyebrow. "Really. A-Okay. I'll steal an apple or something if I get hungry later. Right now," I say through a yawn, "I really want a couch I can crash on, because there is no way in hell I'm staying in the nurse's office." I shudder. "Hate those places."

Shades frowns and opens his mouth to say something, but Oreo puts her hand on his arm. It's light, barely touching. Huh. Not fucking then.

"It has come to my attention that our introduction last night was cut short," she says simply. I give an eye roll.

"Passing out tends to do that," I say, agreeing. "But it's all good, because you're Oreo and he's Shades," I add brightly. She looks at me in a bit of shock. Then a small smile breaks out before she starts laughing. Shades looks at her in annoyed surprise.

"In all my years, no one has ever called me that," she explains once she's calmed down enough to talk.

"Seriously? But you're all… Oreo."

She shook her head, her eyes still bright, before waving her hand dismissively. "Very well then. Come along, I'll show you to your room." She looks back at Shades. "You'll keep an eye out, right, Scott?"

"Scott" just grumbles an affirmative and we two Creeps start on our way out of the cafeteria. Oreo glances down at me, a frown etched into her expression.

"You really should have eaten more," she says absentmindedly. I crinkle my nose, and she changes the subject. "Tomorrow morning you will need to wake up early, so I suppose it's best you rest now."

"Wake early?" I whine. "Why?"

"You'll be taking placement tests. To see where we should put you for your classes."

I pause to stare at her. "I actually have to go to classes? Like, school?"

Oreo gives an amused smile. "Naturally. This _is_ a school."

I look up for a second before hurrying after her. The hell did I get myself into?


End file.
